


Six Feet and Some Change

by aussiebee, ParadiseDesdemona



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Not kidding, Slow Build, Stiles-centric, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 13:10:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15195464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebee/pseuds/aussiebee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseDesdemona/pseuds/ParadiseDesdemona
Summary: It had been six years since Stiles was last home. In those six years the zombie apocalypse happened and Stiles had spent the entire time making his way across the U.S. to make it home to Derek because hepromised. But after he'd fought so long and hard to return to Beacon Hills, after he had seen what little was left of humanity there was one question he was too scared to even ask himself: what, if anything, remained for him to return home to?





	Six Feet and Some Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ParadiseDesdemona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseDesdemona/gifts).



> Well, I seem to be incapable of writing true angst, so have the least-angsty zombie apocalypse fic in creation. Huge thanks to ParadiseDesdemona for the sensational inspiration; have a listen as you read, to get the fully-immersive experience!

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**PART I**

Creeping through the forest in the darkest hours of the morning, carefully placing his feet so he didn’t step on anything that would give his position away, Stiles breathed steadily in an attempt to calm his racing heart. It was foggy as hell, spooky as fuck, and he could feel the tingle of magic drawn from the very air around him pulsing steadily in his fingertips, ready to be shaped by will and intent at a heartbeat’s notice.

Shifting the pack he had over his shoulders to a more comfortable position, he took another step and froze, the sound of fabric dragging against tree bark echoing oddly. The fog was not only disorienting, it was also deceptive, and he wasn’t about to risk casting a locator charm to source it. Instead, moving as stealthily as he was able, Stiles put his back to the biggest tree he could find and waited.

The sound came again, sinister in its casual disregard for stealth, and Stiles thought he was becoming able to pinpoint its origin. Then came the low, almost subsonic hum, and Stiles relaxed a little. A Boney, he thought, if that hum was anything to go by. Unusual to find one so far away from a major metropolitan area, but less of an issue than Stiles had first feared. He pushed off from the tree and began walking at a forty-five degree angle from the Boney, only to pull up short when he stepped around a sycamore and came face to face with a fully-fleshed Sprinter, well muscled and with clothing intact, the skull and thorax of a Boney strapped to its chest in some sort of makeshift bandolier.

Stiles and the Sprinter stared at each other for a long moment, and Stiles could see what was left of the zombie’s intelligence churning away behind its ruined eyes. It was useless to run, he knew, so it was now just a matter of coming up with a plan before the thing decided to make its own play. He drew magic as unobtrusively as he knew how, pleased for the billionth time that one of his inherent skills, along with sarcasm and the ability to find supplies, was the way he defaulted to following ley lines as he travelled.

He did try for subtle, but the Sprinter was freshly infected and incredibly sensitive to magic, and jerkily cocked its head as it felt what Stiles was doing. Stiles didn’t think the comprehension was there, but it was a beast of instinct and drive, and it made the most of that instead.

In a truly terrifying burst of speed, the Sprinter launched across the cleared space at Stiles, its body kept low and its unseeing eyes fixed on him. Stiles immediately opened himself to the magic he could feel and shuddered as it filled him past the point of containment, his skin glowing with the excess. He used will to mould the fog close to his right hand into a scimitar shape and intent to solidify it into becoming a weapon, then dropped to his knees and used the zombie’s own momentum to cut it off at mid-thigh. It dropped to the ground with a furious squeal and used an overarm crawl almost as fast as its running had been to drag itself back to Stiles, who simply used his created mist weapon to decapitate it, skittering away from the head as its own hand batted it towards Stiles’ feet.

“Fucking Sprinters,” he muttered to himself, examining the crushed and scattered remains of the Boney it had carried. That kind of evolution in thinking was concerning, and Stiles made a mental note not to trust what he thought he knew about the undead again.

Sighing at the long night he had ahead, now that he had drawn magic and essentially created a flare to summon all creatures great, small, supernatural and undead, Stiles just shifted his pack once more and began a steady jog.

It was a full three miles before he shook the fog from his hand and returned his weapon to mist.

  


It was three days after that encounter that Stiles found himself standing at the city limits sign outside of Bend, Oregon. He stayed there for two nights with a couple he had come across tending an impressively-sized vegetable garden, and by the time he was rested and ready to go again, they had filled his pack with jerky and preserves, and enough fresh fruit and veg that it was unlikely he’d manage to finish it all before it was no longer good to eat.

From there he followed US-97 south for another week, not even realising he had crossed the border into California until he entered what remained of the city of Weed and recognised Mt Shasta when the rainy, cloudy weather finally cleared on his sixth day after having left Bend.

He was surprised by the wave of homesickness that swept over him once he realised that he had finally made it back to his home state. It had been many years since he’d experienced it, and the force of it almost drove him to his knees right there on the ruined bitumen in front of the Shell gas station. He ignored the feeling, instead distracting himself by discovering an ‘I ❤ Weed’ t-shirt in the ruins of the building that was only one size too large and immediately changing into it, shivering at the iciness of the strong wind that cut through the building’s shell.

Once he had pulled his woodland camo field jacket back on, liberated from an army surplus store he’d raided in Branson, Missouri, he reshouldered his pack and began scouting for a defensible place to spend the night. He was tired, and as much as he was anticipating his return to Beacon Hills, he was terrified by what he might find. Or might _not_ find.

It was hard for Stiles to believe it had been almost five years since the zombie apocalypse, known more colloquially as Grave Rash. As the name implied, the infection started with a rash comprised of headstone-shaped blotches that turned into highly-infectious lesions. Then came the usual symptoms of fever, aches and chills before eventually progressing into amnesia, horrifyingly violent changes in personality and lack of motor control, until finally the victim entered a coma-like state.

Unbeknownst to him, all this had been happening as Stiles was completing his training with the FBI. His first job had been to fly with his team to Chimayo in New Mexico, the site of a small church with supposedly-curative dirt found within its sacristy that had suddenly dropped entirely out of any kind of communication three days prior. At the time Stiles had thought it odd that they were led by a special agent-in-charge instead of a senior or supervisory special agent, but from the moment the plane’s wheels touched down on the private airstrip and found no one waiting for them, he had known something was terribly wrong.

It had been a hard lesson learned, trusting that gut feeling that something was wrong, but it was a skill honed at the claws of the many and varied supernatural catastrophes he had grown up with. As soon as they had left the plane, SAC Randall complaining about the heat and the lack of transportation as the other five members of the team had waited in the shade beneath the plane’s wing, Stiles had done everything in his power to convince him to turn around and take them back home, short of knocking the guy out and flying them home himself.

It had been to no avail, and in the end Stiles had hotwired them a minibus he found parked haphazardly behind a shed. But as they had driven into the township proper to discover not a single soul around, even Randall had become unnerved, his vociferous complaints trailing off into muttered imprecations as he tried and failed to get enough cell signal to call back to H.Q.

By then they were committed and the situation changed from Randall insisting that they stay to trying to convince Stiles that they should leave. But at that point, Stiles was determined to puzzle out the mystery and simply continued driving, not knowing what he would find but absolutely certain it wouldn’t be anything good.

Reaching the church of El Santuario de Chimayo-- or what was left of it-- just cemented that opinion. The charred remains of the stone walls were no longer smoking, and the only structure left intact was a tiny room in the middle of the destruction. The odd thing about that was, as far as Stiles’ recently-trained eye could tell, that room had been the starting point of the immensely destructive fire. Proving that he wasn’t the only who could sense the _wrongness_ of the place, Stiles heard the rest of the team follow his lead and draw their weapons as they took up positions behind Randall, who looked like he wanted anything but to be there and in the lead.

Glancing back at them, the whites of his eyes visible, Randall swallowed hard and opened the door to the small room, frowning in puzzlement at first before an appalled expression crossed his face and he took a step forward, calling for Alexandratos and Maher to get in there to help. Stiles had been more than happy to step back and allow them the room they needed, but what had come after hadn’t spared anyone by something as trivial as distance.

The small well inside the sacristy, filled with the healing dirt, had held something else when they had arrived. The boy had been young, his face pale but for the bright flush of fever that coloured his cheeks, and his eyes had jerked strangely beneath his closed eyelids. That had been all they could see of him, as he had been buried in the soil up to his throat, dried tear tracks on his face the only indication that he had at one point been aware of his situation.

Randall and Maher had used their hands and what they could find close by to dig the boy out, laying him out on the scorched earth, but Stiles had grabbed Chen by the front of her shirt and pulled her up short. _“Full precautions,”_ he had murmured, his eyes fixed on the boy’s torso where the livid red rash was a vivid contrast against his dirty skin. The boy was naked and covered in blood, but had no apparent injuries to account for it, and if there was one thing Stiles knew it was the resilience of the supernatural.

Chen had spared him a sideways glance before nodding sharply and returning to the van with Anderson to suit up. They had then proceeded to administer care to the boy, attempting to control his fever but were ultimately unsuccessful in rousing him. Randall had been all too happy to allow Stiles to continue to check the rest of the township out, followed by Chen and Anderson, but even after several hours of searching, they were yet to find another person left alive. They did, however, find eight freshly dug graves in the small cemetery behind the church, and another left empty beside those. Stiles felt a chill run down his spine when he was reminded of the recent news article he’d found from the town about the nine school children killed on their way from a school field trip, and wondered just what the hell a township brought to its collective knees by grief might have been capable of.

They returned to the church to find Randall alone with the boy, having sent Alexandratos off to try and find cell reception and call for backup to help take care of whatever the situation they had stumbled into was. Help eventually arrived, so Ray must have been successful, but no one ever heard anything from him again.

That had been it, the beginning of the outbreak, though Stiles hadn’t known it until well after the fact, and by the time he realised what had actually transpired, it was too late for him to have done anything, even if it were in his power. When he had finally realised the extent of the disaster he had begun making his way back home, but by then eight states had already closed their borders in an attempt to stop the spread, including Washington, and he’d barely managed to make it out without being discovered and shot on sight.

Finding a likely-looking house to spend the night in, Stiles sighed heavily and climbed over the remains of a fence and through the hole in the front of the low, squat building, checking carefully as he went to ensure the structural integrity of the building was as solid as it had first appeared. When he was comfortable that the roof wasn’t about to come down around his ears, he explored the house to see what he could find, pleased to be able to stack two mattresses on top of each other on the inside of the open wall in anticipation of a decent night’s sleep. He pulled a small bag of crystals from his back and held them cupped in his hands for a moment to centre their metaphysical intent.

The crystals-- four clear quartz, two black tourmaline and a clear fluorite-- were as familiar to Stiles by now as his own hands. In imbuing them with purpose he held them in his left hand and pressed his right forefinger to a rune chain tattooed around his wrist made up of nauthiz, algiz and thurisaz in Elder Futhark, as well as other various symbols of power. A glow of dark blue, almost black light ran down his wrist to the crystals, lighting them up from within for a brief moment before returning back to their normal state, but Stiles could feel their energy thrumming through him like bass in a club. He set the quartz at the cardinal points in the room, the tourmaline in front of the hole on the wall and the door leading back into the rest of the house, and the fluorite by his makeshift bed, pleased with the way the same deep blue light cast a seemingly-haphazard perimeter net around the room once the stones were in place, ready to alert Stiles should anyone or any _thing_ approach while he slept.

That done, he then set about checking to see whether or not the house was still connected to the gas, and if it was safe to use. He was pleased that his luck held out and wasted no time in setting a pot over the flame and heating up a tin of soup he found on the floor of the pantry, adding roughly-cut chunks of vegetables that Andy and Sarah had given him in Bend. He returned to his protected room and settled down on his makeshift bed while there was still light enough to see and drew his journal from his pack, adding a brief entry that outlined his uneventful journey across the border.

By the time the vegetables were done cooking in the beef and barley soup, Stiles was ravenous. By his estimate, even with all the travelling and fighting he’d been doing, he’d put on a good fifteen or twenty pounds of muscle in the past several years. He considered it to be a part of his ongoing luck, born of a drunken St. Patrick’s Day his first year of college when he’d paid giggling obeisance to a gentleman he’d thought was a man in a leprechaun outfit but turned out to be an _actual_ leprechaun. Stiles didn’t remember much from that night bar a lilting Irish accent, sweetly authentic amongst the other terrible attempts and accompanied by a wicked white grin, but when he’d awoken the next morning with a pocket full of money he didn’t remember finding and an impossibly real four-leafed clover tattooed over his left hip bone, he found it hard to regret blowing off study to celebrate. He’d never seen the leprechaun again, but his luck still held and Stiles made sure to leave out a small bottle of good whiskey and a pouch with a gold coin in it on the eve of St. Paddy’s, unsurprised to find it gone by the time he awoke in the morning of the seventeenth. Seemed like a small price to pay, really.

As he returned with his bowl of a soup a low moan caused by the wind began, and Stiles shivered as the chill cut right through him. The air smelled clean and crisp, the slightest hint of woodsmoke following, and from the suddenly humid feel of it against his face he suspected that it would snow by morning. And a good thing, too; nothing damaged the reanimated like the cold. He ate slowly as he watched the sky darken from rich purple to deep, velvety blue as the clouds began scudding across the sky, obliterating the stars.

With a sigh Stiles finished his meal, and unrolled his ultralight down-filled **quilt** from his pack and settled in to sleep, still trying resolutely not speculate about what, if anything, would be left for him to find by the time he returned home.

  


Stiles woke as the sky began to lighten, unsurprised by the thin layer of white that had blanketed the landscape in the night. The sky was clear again but for a gigantic lenticular cloud that shrouded the top of Mt Shasta, just beginning to turn pink in the sunrise. After relieving himself against the dead tree in the front yard of the dilapidated house, his breath fogging up in the air like a dragon, Stiles set about boiling water for a cup of coffee from his dwindling supply. He made a vague mental note to raid the next Starbucks he came across to replenish his stock, and ate a couple of the mandarins he’d been given, a little bruised but still sweet and juicy. He repacked in between sips of his coffee and by the time he was down to the dregs he was ready to leave.

Stiles dismantled his protection net and stashed the crystals in his pack, then crawled back out of the house, sorry to say goodbye to the mattresses. His sleeping pad was great, warm and comfortable, but he sure did miss having a mattress to sleep reliably on. With a resigned shrug Stiles clipped the pack around his waist, made sure it was evenly packed and not rubbing anywhere, and set off back along the road, snow crunching beneath his boots.

It was beautiful out this way, he thought to himself as he walked. The early winter had stripped some of the trees of their leaves, but the evergreens were plentiful and the occasional bright contrast of autumnal colour on an aspen or sugar maple was particularly eye-catching. The muted sounds of nature awakening in the early morning were nothing compared the raw magic that set the very air near to humming as Stiles stode alone, and he idly drew and released it as he travelled, and knew that there would bountiful and sporadically grouped patches of vibrant wildflowers along the trail come spring.

The road he followed through the interior of the Trinity Alps was in surprisingly good condition, most likely as a result of being bypassed as people fled north via the highways once they had realised the cold weather was the greatest natural defence they could find. Apart from the odd rockslide or downed tree, the wide road was clear and easy to travel, and he made great time. He didn’t stop for lunch, just ate as he walked, and by the time the sun was setting he had made his way to Coffee Creek in a hair over twelve hours.

The township wasn’t much to speak of, but Stiles was still surprised to find it completely deserted. He extended his earth-sense to make sure he was completely alone, but there was nothing larger than game alive within the twenty mile radius of his magic. That usually didn’t bode well, given how places like Coffee Creek tended to become strongholds comprised of life-hardened survivors, but he was entirely alone. The twilight shadows left an uneasy twitch between his shoulder blades as he walked through the town to find, searching for somewhere to spend the night, and he knew better than to ignore it, knew he should continue on, but he’d travelled in excess of forty miles that day and just didn’t have it in him to continue on any further.

His luck held when he chose a tiny cabin with a generator rigged to power it, that was not only in good condition but was almost filled with fuel that smelled as though it was still good. He set a much wider net than he usually did, adding his small collection of rune-inscribed Merrow bones to help mute the sound the generator would make and prevent it from carrying too far, then returned to the hut and checked over the generator as well as he knew how before managing to coax it into a spluttering start on his fourth try.

The noise was sudden and violent, and almost more than Stiles could tolerate after so long spent alone in relative silence. He quickly retreated inside and was pathetically thrilled to find that the hot water system was hooked up to the generator, and that he would be having a hot shower that night. Unsure how long he could expect the fuel to last, he began making dinner, a freeze-dried beef stroganoff pack that he added an extra packet of ramen to, as well as more of the vegetables that were managing surprisingly well in his pack. While it was heating on the stove, Stiles did a cursory check of the cabin to take stock of his situation. It had been pretty well cleared out, but there was a double bed he was looking forward to spending the night on, a handful of toiletries beneath the tiny bathroom counter, and a handful of toilet rolls that he added to his pack as soon as he discovered them. They were entirely too valuable to leave behind.

When it was done he took his time eating and finished his meal, letting out a groan at how full his belly was, before washing up and hissing at the freezing temperature of the water that came groaning out of the tap, momentarily grateful that the water hadn't frozen in the pipes. He prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that the generator had sufficiently heated the water he needed for a shower.

He wasn’t disappointed. It took awhile for the water to run hot, Stiles standing naked outside of the small shower cubicle and shivering at the draft that slid cold fingers beneath the door to stab at his skin, but it eventually ran warm enough that he could get in underneath it without risking hypothermia, and then hot enough after that to turn him as pink as a lobster. He washed using the appropriated shampoo and soap, scrubbing thoroughly through his hair and beard and then the rest of his body, and then just tipped his head forward against the tiles and let the hot water beat down on his neck for as long as it lasted. He deliberately didn’t think about the last time he’d been afforded the pleasure of a hot, uninterrupted shower, just enjoyed it for what it was, and cursed himself for an idiot when the water turned cool and he had to dig through his pack-- naked and dripping wet and _freezing--_ for the towel he’d forgotten to take into the shower with him.

When he was dry and dressed and almost ready for bed, he pulled his waterproof map from its pocket and marked his journey down, adding a green question mark over Coffee Creek to indicate the apparently-peaceful relocation of the occupants. The lack of corpses, destruction and vehicles all spoke to a planned and controlled exodus, as opposed to the mass of red marks he’d plotted on his journey from the East Coast across the entire country. Those were the towns and cities Stiles had not spent any considerable time in. He sighed as he planned the next few days of his journey, aiming to be in Redding in two days, with a night spent camping along the way. The pervasive sense of unease hadn’t left him, and he wasn’t looking forward to spending the night out in the forest, alone. His intuition was hard-earned over hard years, and wasn’t to be ignored, but there wasn’t a lot to be done about that without anything else to go on.

After turning off the generator and readjusting to the silence so loud it seemed deafening, Stiles went to bed, warm and comfortable, and had the worst night’s sleep he could remember having in weeks.

  


He lingered the next morning, not wanting to leave the convenience of hot water and electricity, but made himself do it anyway. He had oatmeal for breakfast, sweetened with a handful of dried fruit and the last of the mandarins, and ate as he walked, scooping the warm food from his titanium hiking cup and hyper-aware of the increasingly-disturbing silence the further south he travelled. It reminded him a little of the miasma of threatening anticipation that had shrouded Beacon Hills back in the days that the Nemeton was still perilously active, and that thought was not a cheery one. Too much blood had been spilled in the pursuit of neutralising that particular threat for Stiles to ever remember his adolescence with any significant degree of fondness.

He finished his oatmeal and headed down towards the water to rinse his cup, and that was when it happened. The scream was debilitating, piercing in a way that made Stiles’ brain feel like it was being liquified as it reverberated within his skull. He was forced to his knees with the intensity of it, barely able to keep his eyes open enough to search for the source of the noise, or to focus when he did. Movement from his left was the only thing keeping him from writhing on the ground, the instinctual need to survive shoving him back to his feet and making him stumble back towards the slight incline and the road, but the Screamer remained in pursuit.

Knowing that a gunshot would bring more zombies as surely as the screaming would and unable to focus his Will or Intent while the noise persisted in order to summon his magic, Stiles managed to coordinate his movements enough to draw his handgun from the pocket he’d stitched into the bottom of his pack as he dropped to one knee and attempted to line the zombie up clearly enough to make the shot. His vision still blurred with the ululating scream and he felt one of his eardrums perforate as the zombie shambled closer, but he ignored it and took his shot, cursing a word he couldn’t even hear when it missed. He tried again, missed again, and was about to turn and try to run when he felt a spot on his hip burn sharply. Taking a deep breath, his heart pounding and his head beginning to ache in the worst of ways, Stiles waited until the undead thing was almost close enough to touch and fired once more, the scream ending as abruptly as it began as the Glock 19’s nine millimeter round blew open the back of the Screamer’s head and redistributed its virus-riddled brain across the river rocks.

As a trickle of blood itched its way down the side of his face, Stiles shoved the Glock in his thigh pocket and spun on his heel, bolting for the treeline at the edge of the road. From his one good ear he could hear movement in the trees, but even with swinging his head wildly backwards and forwards he was unable to determine where it was coming from. He hit the road at a stumbling run and careened wildly for a moment as he strove to regain his balance, digging deep and attempting to steady his breathing as he wasted no time in looking back and began a ground-eating run, hoping like hell there were no sprinters in the area drawn to his position by either the Screamer or the gunshots.

It had been a while since he had had to run with a full pack like this, and while he was still in excellent condition he only managed what he estimated to be five or six miles before he needed to slow down, his lungs and thighs burning and his ear throbbing abominably with every rabbiting beat of his heart. He moved at a fast walk as he cast his awareness out, sensing a small pack of zombies following him from a mile or two back and he knew he didn’t have the luxury of time.

As he moved he weighed his options. Zombies were tireless, and even though they usually gave up the pursuit after a while Stiles had been aware of a terrifying evolution of their behaviour over the preceding six months. He had chalked it up to paranoia at first, but now, injured and miles away from anywhere remotely defensible, he wasn’t willing to bet on their leaving him alone any time soon. So it came down to moving, which he could do for quite a while but without creating a sufficient enough distance between him and the pursuers to ensure his safety, or he could hole up, find somewhere to wait them out and hope they either didn’t discover him, or if they did they'd lose interest and leave him be to make his escape.

Either way he looked at it, his odds weren't great. He mentally ran through the contents of his pack and considered the hammock he had stowed in there, wondering if he would have enough time to scale a tree and assemble it before being discovered. He shelved it for future consideration and picked up the pace again, this time at an easier jog as he sought to put more distance between himself and the zombies. It was the best he could do at that moment without resorting to magic and alerting who knew how many others in the area that he was there, and making an even bigger target of himself.

 

The hammock turned out to be an _amazing_ idea. When the writing had been on the wall and Stiles had realised that flying or driving out of Washington wasn’t going to be an option he had gone to the nearest hiking supply store and maxed out his emergency credit card buying the lightest gear he could in preparation for a week or two on the road to get to Michigan which still had open borders at that point. The salesperson, seemingly uncaring of the ‘incredibly infectious and shockingly resistant viral influenza’ that was spreading like wildfire had mentioned a hammock as a must-have in a kit. Excellent shade, perfect to use as a cover for warmth in the ultralight tent Stiles had also purchased, strong enough to be used as a makeshift groundsheet, light as hell and just perfect for the nights dry enough not to require a tent without having to sleep in the open on the ground. The grey parachute fabric made for pretty great camouflage, Stiles agreed, and as it was on sale at sixty percent off, he added it to his pile of purchases.

Right then, suspended high above the roving zombies and cocooned within the perfect warmth of his quilt as he was rocked gently by the wind, Stiles felt safer than he had in recent memory. He’d heard nothing of zombies who could climb, but given the way they shambled aimlessly around the forest beneath him since having lost his trail he wasn’t concerned. He reached into one of the side pockets of his pack and pulled out a bottle of wildly out of date codeine, swallowing two of the tablets with a mouthful of water and chasing it with a Clif Bar and a carrot. He did have a small cooking system he could have used to make a heartier meal, but decided not to chance it while he was almost thirty feet in the air and surrounded by synthetic fabric.

His ear ached abominably, but the codeine, old as it was, did its job and he managed to drop off to sleep once the sliver of moon was high in the sky. It wasn’t a particularly restful sleep, but he knew better than to try and go without any, especially when he had no idea what the following day was likely to bring.

 

As it turned out the night would prove to be the wilder part of that day’s incidents.

 

**PART II**

After the moon had set and the stars had started to fade away, but before the sky had begin to truly lighten, Stiles came to full alertness with the wash of awareness that the supernatural always brought to him. He lay perfectly still for a long moment, but when he heard nothing stir either in the trees around him or from the ground below, Stiles sat up in the hammock and peered carefully over the edge of it.

It took him a moment to parse what it was he was looking at, but finally realised that the dark shadow on the forest floor wasn’t just a shadow, but an apparent absence of light that was meandering slowly around the base of one of the trees supporting his hammock. More curious than afraid, somewhat reassured by the absence of malevolence that usually accompanied anything of particular threat, Stiles watched it for long moments, trying to figure out what it actually was. It moved with a fluid grace, and whatever it was was big, but there was something familiar about it that Stiles couldn’t quiet place until he saw an ear flick and brief swish of a tail, and it was about then that he knew the creature had become aware of his observation.

A large, dark head lifted and bright golden eyes meet Stiles’. They watched each other for a charged moment before the Other lowered its head.

“I mean you no harm, Human,” it said, its voice soft and stilted as though coming from a mouth not designed to facilitate speech.

“Nor I you,” Stiles replied politely, keeping his own words just as soft but knowing with certainty that it would hear him.

“The Abominations which pursue you are gone from this area,” it continued, revulsion evident in its tone. “I have driven them away, but they will return to this place. I suggest you move on from here before sunrise.”

Glowing gold eyes lifted to meet his own again and Stiles sent the subtlest hint of magic forth, searching for ill intent. The Other seemed amused by this, though it held still and remained relaxed as Stiles tested it. He nodded once he had determined its benign nature and began to pack his things, struggling a little with the hammock’s straps in the dark before he climbed laboriously down the enormous black oak and dropped lightly to his feet in front of the Other.

It had taken the form of an enormous horse, as tall as Stiles’ head at the shoulders and so black its coat didn’t even reflect light. It was impossible to distinguish features besides a vague equine impression, but Stiles didn’t let that bother him. “I appreciate the warning,” he said gratefully once he had stood back up, remaining careful not to thank the creature lest it be of the Fae.

As though reading his thoughts, the Other seemed to huff with amusement. “I am older even than the Fae, Human; you need not fear insulting me with your thanks.”

Stiles managed a wry grin. “In that case, may I offer you something as a token of my appreciation?” He rifled through his bag until he found an apple, then hesitated and also withdrew his bag of jerky. “I have other stuff, if you’d prefer something else,” he added as he help up the items.

“Something sweet would be most welcome,” the Other said politely, sounding amused again by the relief that washed through Stiles when it refused his offer of meat.

Stiles located the bag of fruit leather he’d been saving and decided this was as good an occasion as any, offering it to the Other on a flat palm. He held his breath briefly as it snuffled delicately at his hand before taking the offering with the utmost gentleness, eating quietly as the sky began to lose some of its darkness.

“Thank you,” it said, still in that odd voice and still with no truly discernible features but its eyes. “Your kindness and hospitality has been noted, and will be repaid in kind. I will lead you from this place and away unto safety from the Abominations. No harm will come to you so long as you remain at my side.”

Gratitude swamped Stiles and he felt his shoulders sag a little. The Other nudged at his shoulder to get him moving in the right direction and they walked quietly together for several hours, keeping to the shadows beneath the trees and savouring their combined silence. They paused for Stiles to have something to eat, sharing his raisins and the apple with the creature he suspected to be a púca, and before he knew it he was standing by the remains of the east-west intersection of the I-5 that led to Redding.

He knew there was no way he had walked close to thirty miles in less than six hours, but he wasn’t about to look what may well have been a gift horse in the mouth, so he simply thanked the púca sincerely and offered up the last of his raisins in his cupped palms.

“You may cut three hairs from my tail and braid them into a band,” the púca said as he was taking his leave. Stiles did as he was bade, being exceptionally careful with his knife. “Place it around your left wrist; break it in a moment of great need and I shall find you and render aid. Such kindnesses as you have shown in your own time of need are not soon forgotten, young mage.” With that, the púca nuzzled briefly against Stiles’ damaged ear, the huff of its breath skating goosebumps down his neck before it was suddenly gone, melting away into the the shadows of the overpass and disappearing. Stiles stared after it for a long moment before smiling a little and heading south towards Red Bluff.

He walked for almost an hour before he realised that his damaged ear was no longer causing him pain.

  


Red Bluff was one of those places that hadn’t been destroyed in the zombie apocalypse so much as _obliterated_ in its aftermath _._ As he surveyed the remains of the city later that night, Stiles was appalled by the ruin, not a single structure higher than a storey or two left standing, the Cone and Kimball clock tower conspicuously absent from the skyline. The worst part, he thought, was that the humans had done this themselves.

He didn’t linger, choosing instead to walk on through the night.

  


He heard the rumble of engines long before he could see them the next afternoon, plenty enough time to hurriedly disassemble his tent so that it was collapsed and flat and hidden behind the low fence he’d raised it against to use as a windbreak, and to hide himself away in the remains of a second storey that was nothing more than a corner of wall left standing. He hunkered down and peered through a gap in the masonry to watch as three ridiculously outfitted four wheel drives, looking like something out of a Mad Max film, sped by his hiding place.

A chill ran down his spine as he got a better look at the two individuals standing in the back of the last vehicle, holding what looked like an AR-15 and a _bazooka,_ of all things. The question was: what were they hunting? Because Stiles was almost one hundred percent certain they were Hunters, and this close to Beacon Hills, driving around out in the open like they didn’t fear attack? That was a hell of a worrisome thought.

After making sure the convoy was well past his hiding place, Stiles repacked his tent and began looking for somewhere more defensible to spend the night. If there was something around that was scary enough to have Hunters on their guard, Stiles thought it was probably in his best interest to do the same.

He found a car park surrounded by an intact chain link fence that only needed the suggestion of magic at the gate’s latch to lock itself, though Stiles still made sure to lay his crystal net of protection just outside of the compound. Dinner that night was jerky, the last of the carrots, a withered apple and a handful of trail mix, all washed down with the last of his water. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was, not enough of anything was left to figure it out in the near-dark, but he suspected it was somewhere around Vina on the map. He had expected there to be more intact agricultural land in the area this close to the Sacramento River, but there was nothing but flat, barren ground for miles in all directions.

Frowning slightly as he attempted to cast his awareness out, Stiles was shocked by the near-complete absence of magic he could feel. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d felt magical fatigue in an area like this, and it did not bode well for all the things he hoped to avoid coming into contact with. For an area as large as this to be magically barren there would have to have been an extraordinarily powerful drawing of magic to have occurred, and there weren’t too many things Stiles knew of that were capable of that.

He mulled it over as he set the tent up again, unnerved by the usually-present buzz of magic that suddenly _wasn’t,_ and settled in for the night, journalling the odd events of the last forty-eight hours as he forewent eating in favour of making the most of the last of the light. He planned on being up early in the morning and making the last push all the way to Beacon Hills. It was only forty-some miles, so if he left while it was still dark he could get there by early afternoon, and he suspected that travelling by day would be imminently safer than risking the night.

As he lay back in the tent and listened to what few night noises there were in the area, Stiles finally let his thoughts turn towards home. His stomach felt like it was full of rocks, heavy and churning as he wondered about the people he loved best, how they were doing, or if they were even still alive.

The last time he had spoken to his father had been three years ago on a satellite phone he'd ‘liberated’ from a Hunter who had been using his knowledge and know-how to terrorise a small group of survivors outside of Boulder. The connection had been abysmal, and half the call had been spent trying to decipher whatever the other was saying, but as far as proof of life went, it was definitive. The call had only lasted a couple of minutes, just enough for Stiles and his dad to reassure themselves and each other that they were okay, and John had just begun to say something about Scott when the line had dropped, and nothing Stiles tried had been able to connect it again. That day he'd blown a grain silo apart in a frustrated fit of magic and suffered a backlash in the form of a migraine for his effort for almost a week afterwards. He'd carried the phone for over a thousand miles before admitting it was a lost cause and leaving it with a small group of survivalists before he left Montana.

Lying in the tent, his fingers resting over the triskele tattoo marked into the skin of his torso over his apical pulse point, Stiles called to mind the last time he had seen Derek, a wry smile twisting his mouth at the memory. It had been the morning he left for college, early, Scott and his dad standing on the front porch as Stiles ran through his mental checklist of things he had packed in the Jeep. They had said their goodbyes the night before, but there wasn’t a dry eye between them as they bade each other one last goodbye in the still morning air.

After they separated from their too-tight three-way hug, Stiles sighed and cast one more look down the street and in the direction of the Preserve. He knew it hadn’t escaped his father’s attention, but John said nothing, and just gripped his shoulder briefly instead. Then there was nothing for him to do but leave.

Stiles took the long way out of town, passing by landmarks, buildings, businesses and homes he’d known his entire life, one last goodbye before leaving. He knew it was unlikely that he’d be able to afford flights home with any frequency, and the drive to UPenn was too far to make more than once, so he tried to memorise as much of Beacon Hills as he could, even at the same time as his heart began to lighten with the burden of the supernatural finally lifting from his shoulders.

He felt a pang of regret at leaving Scott and Derek to take care of the town, but not as much, he knew, as if he'd put his plans for college on hold in order to stay. He also regretted not having one last chance to say goodbye to Derek, but he pushed that down and turned towards the road out of town. He drove past the last of the houses and was just coming around the bend before the _Thank You For Visiting Beacon Hills!_ sign when he jammed his foot down on the brake at the sight of a familiar black car pulled over in front of it.

Without so much as a second thought Stiles pulled off the shoulder in front of the Camaro and tumbled out of the door, utterly unsurprised at Derek being right there to catch him, wrapping him up in the tightest of hugs and the scents of warm leather and familiar cologne. Stiles buried his face against the side of Derek’s throat, running a hand over the back of Derek’s neck as Derek rumbled deep in his chest until Stiles could feel the vibrations in his own.

“Be safe,” Derek told him eventually, brushing his nose against Stiles’ jawline, scenting him desperately. “Stay safe, Stiles; promise me you won’t go looking for trouble.”

Stiles huffed a laugh and clutched at Derek’s jacket just as fervently. “That’s never really been my problem, you know. Trouble finds me.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Derek sighed.

“I promise I’ll try my best,” Stiles swore, “So long as you do the same.”

“I guess I’ll do my best then, too.”

Stiles couldn’t see Derek’s smile, but he felt it where it curled against his skin. “I’m still not the greatest with this magic stuff,” he said, “but if you need me, call me, okay?”

“The same applies to you. If there’s anything you need, anything, even if it’s just to talk, pick up the damn phone.”

“I will.” Stiles could feel his heart pounding in his chest, highlighting the ache he was beginning to feel. “Derek…”

“Stiles,” Derek said suddenly, one arm wrapped tightly around Stiles’ waist as the other came up to cup his face. Stiles could see the naked honesty on Derek’s face and felt his stomach flip. “I--”

“I know,” Stiles said, then leaned forward and caught Derek’s mouth in a kiss, pouring as much emotion and truth into it as he could. Derek gave as good as he got, both hands cradling Stiles’ face as though he was the most precious thing in the world while he kissed Stiles senseless.

“Your timing sucks,” Stiles laughed shakily against Derek’s lips before pressing several near-chaste kisses against them.

“I just wanted you to know that there’s something for you to come home to. If you want it.”

He sounded so shy, so uncertain that Stiles wanted to bundle him in the Jeep, turn around and take him right back home to keep him forever. “Of course I… god, you moron,” he laughed again, kissed Derek again. “Always, okay? I’ll _always_ come back to you. I need you to believe that.”

“I do, I believe you,” Derek murmured, the kisses he returned tinged with desperation.

“Come with me,” Stiles blurted suddenly, but he knew it was cruel to even ask.

Derek’s luminous eyes saddened a little, and Stiles had his answer. “I can’t,” Derek said anyway, regret making his throat ache as he ground out the words. “Someone needs to be here, to keep an eye on things, to help Scott.” He hesitated, quirked a smile and kissed Stiles deeply. “To make sure your dad eats right.”

Stiles’ answering smile was shaky, but his grip was sure. “I’ll be back, Derek.”

“I’ll be here,” Derek swore.

They kissed again, again and again until their lips tingled with it, until Stiles finally tore himself away, backing up until his hand came back into contact with the still-open door of the Jeep. “I’m holding you to that,” he said with a grin, knowing it did nothing to disguise the way his heart was breaking a little. He climbed back into the driver’s seat, closed the door and buckled himself in, but just sat and watched as Derek walked towards him.

“Call me,” Derek said softly.

“And I’ll text you relentlessly,” Stiles agreed, rewarded with a wide smile.

“Skype, too.”

“It’ll be like I never left.”

“Maybe send me a postcard or something?”

“Now you’re just stalling,” Stiles said gently.

“I am,” Derek admitted shamelessly. “So, I’m going to kiss you again, and you’re going to go, and you’ll message me every couple of hours until you get there.”

Stiles agreed wholeheartedly and drew Derek’s face close when he leaned in the window to kiss him one last time, slow and deep.

And that was the thought that Stiles finally fell asleep to, his chest feeling empty like he’d negligently left the contents of it six years and too many miles away.

  


When Stiles awoke the next day it was with renewed purpose, as though finally allowing himself to remember Derek the way he’d been longing to had triggered his desire to finally face up to returning home. He packed his things for what he hoped would be the last time and set off, a bag of trail mix and an apple for breakfast, and the very last of his coffee.

There were only forty-odd miles left to go, and in spite of the absence of magic that was still making him feel a little jittery, Stiles was-- for the first time during his impossibly long trek across the damn country-- actually beginning to feel a little excited about returning home. He trusted his luck to lead him to his family, to help him make his way back to his dad and his… Derek, and he could feel his heart rate pick up a little at the thought of being so close. He cast a suspicious look up at the sky, eyeing off the dirty grey clouds scudding across the sky, and predicted that he was going to spend at least part of the day wet, a guess that proved itself correct a couple of hours later as Stiles first entered the forest that surrounded Beacon Hills.

To his relief, some of the ambient magic had returned, but it was a pale facsimile of what it should have been, and was evident in the way the trees that signalled the beginning of the forest were bare, grey, gnarled and eerie as all hell. The only other place he had felt such a significant dearth of natural life-magic was the Salar de Uyuni salt flats in Bolivia, and it had so thoroughly unsettled him that he hadn’t been able to stay for longer than an hour.

Entering the forest offered little cover from the rain, and Stiles resigned himself to a miserable day of trudging through the damp leaf litter, wet boots and the odd cold drip down the back of his neck. Sighing irritatedly, he just flicked his jacket collar up and tugged his beanie down a little lower and picked up his pace. It was a gloomy walk, made more so by the increasingly distressing lack of magic radiating along the ley line he followed.

It took a little while, but it was around the time that he realised that it wasn’t only a lack of magic but a _twisting_ of it, a perversion, that had him so unsettled that he also realised he was being watched. It was a gradual realisation, a creeping up and down his spine that had Stiles itching to form another mist-weapon just to reassure himself. There were no insect or bird noises and hadn’t been for a while, but just as he had that thought a large moth fluttered right across his face, its wings brushing against his eyelashes and sending a jolt of revulsion through him that was almost as much a physical recoil as the way he jerked his head back in startlement.

It landed against a bare tree trunk to his left with a near-squishing kind of sound and was immediately still, its oddly angular wings still and spread wide. Stiles stared at it in distaste, certain he’d never seen an uglier insect, cataloguing the off-khaki colour of the wings and bone-white body with disproportionately huge black eyes on either side of its head. The antennae were long and barbed and jutted straight back from the head like a set of wicked horns. The entire thing looked sinister, and Stiles wondered again what the hell had happened here for nature to have become so deviant from its origins. He cast one last look of distaste over the insect before moving on, his mind bent towards trying to remember if he had read anything in his research after Bolivia about magical ‘dead zones’ that would explain what he was experiencing.

Another couple of hours later and there was still no magic to speak of, but the knowledge that he was being watched was making Stiles want to shoot something. He found a clearing and decided to sit down to eat, and hopefully encourage whatever it was that had him in its sights to make itself known.

Sitting on a fallen log and ensuring he kept his body relaxed in an effort to maintain the illusion of his being unaware of his company, Stiles rummaged through his bag for several items, stuffing them into the pockets of his jacket before removing a squeeze pack of applesauce and a chocolate peanut crisp Oatmega energy bar. He smiled faintly at the brown and orange packet, remembering the resigned expression on Derek’s face when Stiles had first discovered them and started up with the puns. He peeled the wrapper back and took a bite, the texture and consistency reminding him of the rice krispy treats Boyd had always had a sweet tooth for, then narrowed his eyes when he saw another of the creepy butterflies splayed across the leaves across the clearing from him. For a brief, unsettling moment he was certain it was the same one that had touched his face, but snorted under his breath at himself when another dropped straight out of the sky to land next to it with a sickly _splat._ This one had a splatter of dark red across its wings that looked disconcertingly like blood, and it was as bizarrely still as the others.

There were no other sounds and nothing else moved, but the sensation of being surveilled remained. Stiles tried to extend his awareness outwards, but the lack of magic was so severe that his range was decreased from around twenty miles to less than twenty feet. It was an unfamiliar limitation, and not one he was even remotely comfortable with; the reason he had lasted so long and with such success was due in significant part to his ability to identify threats and avoid them preemptively. With that ability impaired, Stiles discovered he felt more vulnerable than he had in years. He didn’t like it.

He stuffed the bar’s wrapper back into his pack and sucked the applesauce back in three quick draws, following it with a long drink of water. He didn’t have a lot of water left, or snack foods for that matter, so he knew that getting back to Beacon Hills sooner than later was becoming increasingly important; there was no way in hell he was risking drinking the water from any of the sluggish trickles he had passed on his trek through the forest. He sighed and made sure his pack was properly arranged, taking as long as possible without seeming overly suspicious, then gave up on smoking out his observer, deciding that if they wanted to watch him that badly they were more than welcome to.

Stiles got to his feet and reshouldered his pack, scowling at the butterflies that ‘adorned’ the trees of the clearing, disgusted to realise the sounds he thought were fat raindrops hitting the ground were in fact butterflies landing. Such a visual representation of the poisoned environment was making him feel a little queasy, so he wasted no time after that in leaving the clearing, having to dig deep for the thrumming of the ley line to lead him onwards towards Beacon Hills. Towards home.

 

The attack, when it came, was sudden and horrifyingly unexpected.

As the sun began to dip below tree level Stiles realised the butterflies, increasing in number the further on he travelled into the forest, were emitting a weak and sickly green phospholuminescence. It made him think of the Oni’s fireflies, an association he could have happily done without, and the darker it got the more butterflies he realised were surrounding him. A suspicion began twisting through his brain and he felt his heart rate begin to increase with low-grade alarm. He was sure he couldn’t be too far from Beacon Hills, but the urgency he was experiencing to get there was increasing with every passing minute. He found himself shuffling the small handful of _Lioconcha hieroglyphica_ in his pocket in a nervous habit he hadn’t had in years as he strode along, the little shells clicking melodically against each other as the tattoo that ran beneath his left collarbone began to tingle in response.

Then, abruptly, an icy flash of sensation swept over him and his ability to sense the ley line he’d been following was just gone. Which should have been _impossible._ A soft impact against his leg made him glance down to see a butterfly had landed on his thigh. A shudder travelled over him, uncontrollable and irrational, and Stiles lifted a hand to convulsively flick the insect off when to his unending horror _its head twisted to the side and curled back to stare directly into his face with its reflectionless black eyes._ The visceral fear and revulsion that coursed through him was immediate, but before he could complete his gesture and squash the obscenity it twitched its antennae forward quicker than a wink and stabbed them into the meat of Stiles’ thigh.

It felt like he’d been tased, a bone deep wrongness zapping through him like one of the Argents’ electric batons. He slapped the insect off, the sickly glow of it spinning through the air to land on the leaves a few feet away, but the damage was done. There was a moment that felt like a huge breath being inhaled, and then the pulsating glow began to sync up and Stiles realised just how thoroughly fucked he was. Because there were literally thousands of them covering the trees, logs, rocks and ground, and from the ones closest to him Stiles could see that they were all twisting their horrifying little heads to stare directly at him.

The entire forest was utterly silent and Stiles felt like he was teetering on a knife’s edge. Then the wet splat of another butterfly hit his pack and Stiles broke, sprinting through the trees as fast as he could, even as he knew it would never be enough. He drew the hieroglyph clams from his pocket and held them tight as he ran, focussing as much of his thought as he could spare into encouraging them to do their thing, to protect him as much as possible. He flinched at every glowing form that he came into contact with, his panic spiralling when he realised he wasn’t even certain if he was running in the right direction, and that there was no break in the glowing threat that surrounded him on all sides.

He kept running, though, because the alternative was too horrifying to contemplate, but no matter how hard he called he could not regain contact with the ley line he needed. _Athdar,_ he thought desperately, picturing the wily expression of the only leprechaun he knew, _if you have any luck to spare, I could sure use some right about now._ He wasn’t expecting a response, not really, but when there was tug from behind his triskele tattoo leading him to the right across a small near-stagnant stream he didn’t hesitate for a second. He leapt over it and kept going, the tugging sensation directing him like the arrow on a compass.

Then, just as it looked like he was beginning to outpace the butterflies something fouled his feet, its body thick and unyielding as his boots connected and it sent him sprawling across the forest floor. He felt as well as heard the sound his skull made as it connected with a rock or stump buried beneath the leaves, and as the bright spots that flared behind his eyes began to fade to nothing even as he struggled to remain conscious, the last thought that crossed his mind was that he had been _so very close_ to coming home.

  


**PART III**

Stiles came awake in an instant and with full recollection of the events that had preceded his unconsciousness. He instinctively began to draw magic towards himself, and was startled when power flooded in at a torrential rate. He had to release it harmlessly as a series of soft lights that danced around the ceiling of the room he was currently lying in when it threatened to overwhelm him, and considered his situation.

For his magic to have returned so completely he had to have been unconscious for over forty-eight hours, or he hadn’t spent as much of it as he thought he had as a last-ditch effort to protect himself from the butterflies. Even more interestingly, his innate defenses had continued and expanded as he slept, if the whispering outside his door and lack of company was any indication. Of course that could’ve just meant that he had been imprisoned, but hey-- he had nearly been killed by vampiric butterflies, so anything was a step up from that.

Cautiously, and with as much stealth as he could employ Stiles climbed out of bed and bit back a groan as his body made its protests of such rough treatment known. He crept across the room and pressed his ear to the door to listen to the unfamiliar voices.

“...this rate we won’t be able to get to the top of the stairs by dinner,” one disgruntled woman said.

“It extends out the window, too,” said a younger male voice. “Carys tried climbing up to get a look and couldn’t make it past the first floor balcony.”

“He must be very powerful,” two voices said in eerie synchronicity that sent a shiver down Stiles’ spine. Since when had erinyes been out and associating with others?

“Do you think he’s going to live?” the second voice asked. “It’s still so hard to hear his heartbeat-”

“Given that he’s standing with his ear to the door listening to everything you’re whispering loudly enough to be heard from outside, I dare say he’s going to make it.”

A different kind of chill, this one raising goosebumps across his whole body, washed through Stiles as he heard the familiar voice, just as soft if not laced with more humour than he remembered. He reached without thought to the door’s handle and wrenched it open, his eyes flicking over the startled group of strangers before settling on _him_.

“Hello, Stiles.”

The smile that curled the corners of Derek’s mouth was as familiar to Stiles as his own face, even after so many years, and before he could make the conscious decision to do so he was striding across the hall, the strangers scattering as Stiles launched himself at Derek, a laugh bubbling up through him as Derek caught him, pulling him in close to scent him, rubbing his nose and cheeks against Stiles’ throat and jaw as Stiles ran restless hands down Derek’s neck and shoulders to wherever he could reach. It was animalistic and base, their response to each other, but Stiles could feel his breath beginning to sob out of him in desperation as he sought to get closer still, pressing his entire body against Derek’s and knocking them both off balance for a beat until they ended up against a wall, Derek blanketing Stiles with his own body as they touched and affirmed and reassured themselves and each other.

They were lost in each other for a long, intimate moment until Stiles’ breathing began to slow and Derek’s heart followed suit and he sighed, slid his lips in a tantalising caress across the sharp jut of Stiles’ jaw and lifted his hands to cup Stiles’ face. His glorious, beloved eyes darted all over Stiles face as though cataloguing the years’ worth of differences before he smiled again and took a step back, not relinquishing his hold on Stiles.

“Madeline,” he said, voice gruff, “I’m almost certain you’re supposed to be in school-- take Jack with you. Tis, you and Meg are due in the library.”

The twin erinyes watched them both with near-colourless eyes before nodding in perfect unison and leaving on silent feet. The other two followed, reluctantly and with nowhere near the same lightness of foot as the twins, and then Derek and Stiles were alone.

“Your dad is due home before nightfall tomorrow,” Derek told him, and Stiles felt like his strings had been cut.

“Oh thank god,” he gasped, his head spinning as the weight of the previous six years without reliable contact slipped from him. “What about… I mean, is everyone still--”

Derek surged forward and kissed the questions right out of Stiles’ mouth, his tongue seeking and teasing against Stiles’ until they were both panting and shoving bodily against each other. “I knew you’d come back,” Derek murmured against his ear as his big hands grabbed at Stiles’ hips and positioned him just right so that they were grinding against each other. “You promised you would and I waited, _fuck,_ I waited for so long,” he said, punctuating his words with a rough scrape of teeth against the sensitive skin behind Stiles’ ear. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

“Always,” Stiles groaned in response, frotting desperately against Derek, trembling fingers working frantically at their pants, biting back a curse when he couldn’t coordinate well enough to get them both unbuttoned. “Christ, Derek, You don’t even know-- _yes,”_ he hissed when he finally managed to pop the button on Derek’s jeans, “you don’t even know how hard it’s been to get back here.” He flipped their positions so that Derek was the one with his back pressed to the wall before he drew Derek’s cock out, thick and hot and leaking with want as he slid a tight fist down and back up the length of it. The angle was awkward and Stiles absolutely needed that velvety weight on his tongue _yesterday,_ but they were both wildly in need of the contact and reassurance, so Stiles just managed to get his own dick out before grabbing Derek’s hand so they could work themselves both together.

Their mouths found each other again, messy, slick and too urgent to be gentle. Stiles tasted blood as his lip was pinched between their teeth, and Derek grunted when the angle around his cock was just shy of painful, but neither of them would even contemplate stopping, not when they’d waited so long to get to where they were.

Stiles vaguely knew that there had to be people in the house who knew exactly what they were doing, but he couldn’t muster an iota of concern. Derek’s hands on him, the scorching heat of his tongue, the way the desperation and relief in his kisses tasted-- all of it was the perfect cocktail for Stiles and he came, hot and possessive, over Derek’s fist with a low cry. Derek followed a handful of heartbeats later, his teeth clamping down on the tendon in Stiles’ throat. He soothed the bite with kitten-licks as they came down together, then kissed his way back to Stiles’ mouth and lingered there, seemingly content to make out with him in the hallway for hours, neither of them with any decency to their names and their pants still undone.

“Come on,” Derek said eventually, carefully tucking Stiles away, then himself, utterly unselfconscious and looking delicious with flushed cheeks and a kiss-swollen mouth. He took Stiles’ hand and led him down the hall to let them into a bathroom with an enormous shower stall, smiling a little at Stiles’ inarticulate noise of pleasure when he saw it. “Get in,” he said fondly, laughing outright at the speed with which Stiles stripped off, only to suck in a sharp breath as he took in the scars and ink that adorned Stiles’ back.

Glancing back over his shoulder as he adjusted the water temperature, Stiles managed a tiny smile. “Like I said, you don't know how hard it was to get here.” With that cryptic remark he stepped in and under the spray, tilting his face up to the phenomenal pressure and groaning a little in pleasure.

That was more than Derek could take, and he wasted no time in removing his own clothes to join Stiles, slotting himself against Stiles’ back and wrapping his arms around him. It settled something long-yearning in him when Stiles relaxed and dropped his head back onto Derek's shoulder, his scent sweetening into pleased and content, his heart slowing to match.

Derek pressed his face to Stiles’ neck again and just rested there, barely able to believe he had him back, that Stiles was home, and his, and safe, _finally._ It had felt like it would never happen, but Derek had never lost faith, not in Stiles nor in what he was capable of. He knew that there was no way he wouldn't move heaven and earth to get back to his father, and had held onto the hope that he would be included in that motivation. The look that had been on Stiles’ face when he had opened the door and seen Derek had been proof that his hope had been well founded.

“What's got you thinking so hard?” Stiles asked, his voice echoing off the tiles.

“Just glad you're home,” Derek said honestly.

Stiles turned within the close circle of Derek's arms and kissed him again. “So am I,” he agreed. “Is my dad really… how is he?”

With a smile that made an answering curl appear over Stiles’ mouth, Derek shrugged. “About as healthy and well as can be expected, given the zombie apocalypse slash end of times,” he said. “He’s pretty much running the town, to be honest. His army training came in handy and after you called the first time, when you told us what was going on, he came to me and we started putting things in place to prepare for the worst. Turns out the worst showed up a couple of weeks after that, but we were more than ready for it.” Derek smoothed Stiles’ hair back from his face, one thumb tracing over an eyebrow as he leaned in to kiss Stiles again. “You saved our lives, Stiles.”

“Pretty sure that if the government is ever reformed I’ll be imprisoned for desertion and sharing top secret information and a whole host of other crimes, but it would absolutely be worth it,” Stiles told him, kissing him back.

Their shower devolved after that, their kisses deepening and turning into desperate handjobs and wordless affirmations. They managed to separate long enough to get back to the room Stiles had woken up in, then fell into bed together and did it all over again. Only after that, after their breathing had evened out and their hearts had slowed, when Derek was curled against Stiles’ side, one heavy arm draped possessively over his hips and his lips pressing lazy kisses against Stiles’ shoulder did they speak, catching each other up on the years spent apart.

Stiles shared his years-long trek across the U.S., the people he had met, the encounters he’d had with the undead. He felt Derek’s body gradually tense against him as he recounted the three weeks he’d spent being ‘helped’ by a group of Hunters who, thankfully, hadn’t recognised him as either a Stilinski or a member of a pack. He told Derek about New Mexico, about what they’d found and what it meant. He mentioned the other supernatural creatures he’d come across, startling slightly at the small sound of realisation Derek made when Stiles described his encounter with the púca.

 _“That’s_ what that was? It wouldn’t let anyone near you when we realised it wasn’t a zombie that’d tripped the wards and finally managed to find you,” Derek said. “It was standing over you, protecting you from the horerczy’s butterflies.”

“The what now?” Stiles asked, then frowned and lifted his left arm, surprised to see the thin braided band still intact and wrapped around his wrist.

“It’s a kind of alp, we think,” Derek shrugged, taking Stiles’ raised hand and lacing their fingers together before pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Basically, there are these pockets of the forest that have a… an entity, a malevolent one. Whatever it is, it creates or attracts the vampire butterflies, and they feed on anything they can land on.”

“Christ,” Stiles shuddered, remembering the wet sound the horrid things had made any time they’d landed.

“I’ve never seen anyone survive an attack, let alone repel them, but the horse-thing kept you safe. When we first arrived it was standing right over the top of you and I could see blood in a pool beneath your head, and I thought it had done that. Then I saw the butterflies and it explained what had happened.”

“Did you offer it any food?” Stiles asked. “It likes sweet things.”

“I know,” Derek said with a sudden smile. “It followed us back here and the cubs have been feeding it all sorts of rubbish.”

“Cubs?” Stiles asked, surprised. “There are kids here?”

Derek smiled again, this one wide and pleased. “Come on,” he said, kissing Stiles firmly before rolling out of bed and pulling Stiles to his feet. “Let me show you.”

  


Beacon Hills was almost unrecognisable.

The residential part, Derek explained as he walked Stiles through said area, was based around the part of town the loft was situated in. From the frequent contact they’d kept during Stiles’ absence he knew that Derek had been working with the county to turn the empty and abandoned warehouses in the area into cheap and affordable housing, an idea that had turned the most disreputable part of town into a thriving little community. It also had the added benefit of being sufficiently large enough to house those who had remained once the end of the world had begun.

From there, things had apparently developed fairly organically. Community gardens, out of town trips to the Costcos from Beacon City to San Jose for fuel, food and sundries, the acquisition of machinery, generators, solar panels, building supplies, medication and medical supplies, tools, agricultural supplies and just about anything else they thought may one day come in handy. As much as could be stored in the Hale vaults was, the rest in caches hidden strategically all over the town. Everything was solar powered, bores had been sunk for water, and the community was thriving.

Marvelling at the way the people they passed all turned to Derek with smiles, congenial words and even the occasional touch to the arm or shoulder, Stiles stared around himself in amazement. While reduced to a quarter of the size it had been previously, Beacon Hills was strong and vibrant, and with a renewed sense of community that definitely hadn’t been present before Stiles had left.

“How?” he demanded after Derek gave him a tour of the largest vegetable garden, an enormous space that was rich with food, even in the middle of winter, and complete with fat, happy chickens scattered about and feasting on insects. “How have you done all this? Derek-- I walked the entire width of the Continental U.S. and I can tell you with near certainty that there is nothing like this _anywhere,_ not on this scale.”

Derek turned to face him, a startlingly open expression on his face. “They like me,” he said simply.

“Of course they do,” Stiles confirmed automatically. Then, “Who does?”

“The townspeople,” Derek said, somehow managing to sound bewildered and smug all at the same time. “You wouldn’t believe how many of the residents here knew- at least obliquely- about the supernatural. And who knew my family for what we are. When people began to realise that it was for real, that zombies were a thing and they were at the door, they began to approach me, let me know who they were and what they could do. We have witches, dryads, naiads, a sylph, a clúrachán, a couple of shifters of various persuasion, and even a brownie. Some were here the whole time, but a lot of them have found their way here since. Not only that, a lot of the humans were aware, and have been incredibly accepting. Those who weren’t were given the option to leave. And given the… cultural diversity, we’re actually doing okay.”

His heart warmed by the pride Derek had playing out across his face, Stiles stepped close into his space and slipped his arms around his waist, nuzzling beneath his chin in a wolfish gesture that had Derek releasing an answering rumble from deep within his chest. “I’m so proud of you,” Stiles murmured. “You’ve done an amazing thing here, Derek; you’ve saved so many lives.”

“Thanks to you.” They shared a kiss, Derek’s big hands gripping Stiles’ hips so his thumbs were pressed against his hip bones, then he grabbed Stiles’ hand and led him on. “I want you to see something,” he said as they left the garden and headed towards a solid brick building with a simple sign above the door that said ‘school’. Derek let them in, and it was only a moment later that Stiles heard the laughter of young children, something inside of him tightening, and something suspiciously like tears prickling his eyes. “It gets better,” Derek promised, his smile-- still so new and gorgeous to Stiles-- widening. He ushered Stiles ahead of him down the hall and paused in front of a closed door. “Wait here.”

Impatient and reluctant to let Derek out of his sight, Stiles spun on his heel and paced away, then back, then away again before the door opened and an achingly familiar blonde head poked out to stare at him, at first in confusion and then in dawning disbelief. “Erica?” he said, hearing how small his own voice was to his ears. Then again, stronger, “Erica?”

“Stiles?” Erica’s face crumpled and then she was running across the hall and leaping into his arms, her legs around his waist as she laughed and cried a little, raining kisses down on his face. “What the hell took you so long?” she demanded. “Where have you been? Are you safe? When did you get here-- _how_ did you get here?”

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked over the top of her. “God, I missed you so much, I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry_ it took me so long to get back to you… are you _pregnant?”_

That last was asked in an incredulous tone as Erica slid down Stiles until she was standing on her own two feet, the roundness of her belly suddenly apparent. She beamed up at him, hands spread wide over her shirt, and Stiles was helpless to do anything but grin back, especially when it clicked. “Boyd?” he asked.

She nodded, her pretty curls bouncing. “He’s out with your dad-- oh my god, Stiles, your _dad--_ and Isaac should be around here somewhere, too.”

“How is this our life, dude?” Stiles asked, and then went immediately on the defensive when a low growl vibrated out from the classroom behind them. Ignoring Erica’s hand on his arm he shoved through the door, only to pull up short at the sight of Derek Hale on hands and knees and being climbed like a jungle gym by a dozen preschoolers, all of them giggling and vying for his attention. Stiles slumped against the doorframe, the tightness in his chest increasing as he watched Derek growl again, the squeals of the children like music.

“He’s amazing with them,” Erica said softly, nestling against his side as he lifted an arm automatically to hold her close against him. “He’s amazing with everything, actually.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed faintly, his heart thumping hard as Derek glanced up and shot a wide smile at him.

“He waited for you,” Erica continued, quiet enough that Stiles didn’t think Derek could hear her. “Every day.”

Stiles looked down to find her staring up at him, her eyes wide and her mouth vulnerable, looking as though she couldn’t believe he was really there with them.

“Not once did he doubt that you’d come back,” she continued as she turned to watch Derek, now bench-pressing the kids one at a time, lifting them high over his head. “The odds were so slim that you’d make it back so as to be negligible, you get that, right? But Derek wouldn’t hear it. And not in a denial-type way, just in matter-of-fact, _‘Stiles will come back because he promised he would’_ kind of way. Everything he’s done here, the decisions he’s made, the things he’s achieved, all of it was for you. His faith in you has given us all hope for the last six years. So if you’re not… if you’re _unsure_ about him or any of this, you need to sort that out _now_ and--”

“I spent six years hiking across this god damn continent to get back to him- to all of you- so I’m not sure what I else I can do to prove how serious I am,” he teased gently. “I’ll tell each and every one of you, if it helps.” Instead of reassuring her like he’d thought it would, Stiles watched as Erica’s face fell.

“Look, about Scott,” she began, but then suddenly Derek was there, running an absent hand over her shoulder as he stepped close into Stiles’ personal space.

“You should get back to it before I get the kids too stirred up,” he told her placidly.

Looking for a moment like she might argue, Erica eventually just nodded, hugged Stiles tight again for another long moment, then returned to her class. Stiles listened as she began settling the kids, all of them babbling excitedly about their visit from Alpha Derek, the obvious fondness and reverence in their voices making Stiles smile, which turned into a grin when he saw the pink flush creeping high along Derek’s cheekbones.

“You’re amazing with them, _Alpha,”_ Stiles said innocently, dropping his tone on the last word and laughing when a shudder ran through Derek.

“Stiles,” Derek said, both warning and wanting, and crowded Stiles back against the yellow-painted wall to kiss him deeply, taking his time to drive Stiles utterly crazy. They kissed lazily for a long while until Derek finally took a step back, looking dazed. “Stiles, no.”

“Stiles, _yes,”_ Stiles replied mindlessly, capturing Derek’s face between his hands to draw him back in, and Derek’s laughter against his lips was a delight.

“No, Stiles, I need to talk to you,” Derek protested, laughing again at the petulant expression Stiles wore.

“It had better be good,” Stiles grumbled, but satisfied himself with one last kiss before lacing their fingers together again and letting Derek lead him back out into the cloudy afternoon.

Derek led him through a series of buildings, waving and speaking briefly with the people they passed, always introducing Stiles with a reverence that Stiles didn’t believe he was worthy of, but would tolerate because of the warmth in Derek’s voice as he did so, and the way he always pulled Stiles in close as though he were something precious. They stopped briefly at a small building that looked almost like a sentry box, and when Derek introduced Stiles to Mike, the shifter on duty, the young man’s eyes widened almost comically before he nodded, lifted a trapdoor up from the floor and disappeared, returning a few moments later to hand Derek a calico bag.

They returned via a circuitous route that allowed Stiles to get more of a picture of what Beacon Hills had become to what Stiles belatedly realised was the house Derek had built and sent Stiles photos of whilst he’d still been in college. The only time he’d ever been home to see it in person had been in his final year, and it had just had its roof put on. To see it now, all warm brick with wide, shallow steps leading up to a stone porch, Stiles felt a deep sense of home begin to radiate through him. From the look Derek gave him he could tell at least a little of what Stiles was feeling, but just squeezed his hand as he opened the front door-- left unlocked-- and let him straight through and into the kitchen.

It was a beautiful space, flooded with natural light from the enormous windows and dominated by a massive butcher’s block island counter, and Stiles allowed himself to be pressed onto one of the stools in front of it as Derek began to move around the space, clearly at ease in the high-ceilinged space.

“That bag is for you, by the way,” Derek said with a studied casualness that had Stiles immediately suspicious.

Dragging it towards himself, Stiles opened it carefully, then made a wordless noise of shock when he realised what he was looking at. Grabbing the bottom and tipping it upside down, he almost cried when the familiar orange packages tumbled out and onto the bench. Several boxes of Reese’s Pieces, packages of peanut butter cups-- a couple in dark chocolate, Stiles’ all-time favourite-- and a two-pound bag of miniatures shone up at him like treasure. “It has been more than four years since the last time I had Reese’s,” he told Derek, opening the bag of miniatures and unwrapping one, inhaling deeply before he popped it into his mouth, eyes dropping closed and a groan gusting out of him as the richness of the flavours burst across his tongue. The chocolate was a little grainy with age, but Stiles was too happy to care. “Did you save these for me?” he asked as he unwrapped another.

“No,” Derek said shiftily. “We have lots of food stored.”

“But all you did was introduce me and then Mike gave you this… how did he know?”

Derek scowled at him, but there was nothing but fondness in it. “I can take them back, you know.”

“No,” Stiles cried softly, curling a protective arm around the candy and glaring. “I will straight up kill you, I swear to god. I could, you know; I’ve killed all sorts of shit.”

A pained look crossed Derek’s face as he finished assembling a thick sandwich on homemade bread for Stiles and set it on a plate. “I know,” he said, sliding it across to Stiles who fell on it gracelessly when he suddenly realised how hungry he was. “Stiles…” He hesitated, then came around to take the seat next to Stiles. “I’m sorry I didn’t come for you when you first called--”

“Don’t you dare,” Stiles said, stunned, as he stared at Derek’s downcast face. “You and Dad and the pack all being here was the only thing that got me through the last couple of years, okay? Even once I realised that the sound of a vehicle would summon zombies and I was going to have to _walk_ three thousand miles to get through to you that thought was enough for me to get up and start. I know it’s taken me an eternity to get here, and I’m sorry you had to wait, but don’t apologise for being the thing that got me through being alone, alright?”

Derek swallowed hard and nodded, once. “You should know,” he said, the words sounding like they were painful to get out, “you should know that Scott… he’s not here, Stiles. I tried to make him stay, but he left, said he was going to find you.”

_“What?”_

Looking distressed, Derek dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “John and Melissa and I tried to get him to stay, but he wouldn’t listen, insisted that you would do the same for him. He and Kira snuck out in the middle of the night; they knew how to avoid the watch, where to collect supplies from.” He looked wrecked as he spoke, still not meeting Stiles’ eyes. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think-- I think he’s still alive. Things were never easy between us, even if they did get better, but I think I would have felt it if… the pack bond we all share would have… I would know.”

Dropping his face into his hands, Stiles tried to ignore the pain lancing through his chest at Derek’s words. “That idiot,” he muttered to himself. “What the _fuck_ was he thinking?” Straightening up, Stiles reached across to grip the back of Derek’s neck. “You listen to my heart, okay?” he said fiercely. _“This isn’t your fault, and I don’t blame you._ Scott is a moron, and he should have known better.” Derek looked like he’d been kicked in spite of Stiles’ reassurances so Stiles stood, dragging Derek to him and engulfing him in a tight hug.

“Don’t leave me,” Derek murmured against Stiles’ neck, a fine tremor running through him as he clung desperately to Stiles. “I know that it’s Scott and you love him like a brother, but I just got you back and I can’t lose you again, Stiles, I just _can’t.”_

“Shh,” Stiles hushed gently, stroking Derek’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere without you, I promise. And you know I keep my promises.” He held as tight to Derek as Derek was to him, stunned and humbled to realise that what this man-- all six feet and some change of fearsome apex-predator werewolf-- was afraid of most was losing him. “We’ll figure it out, okay? But no matter what happens it’s you and me, big guy. I’ve come too far and it’s taken too long for me to get here to let go of you now.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains canon-typical violence/death, and all of it against the zombies. If there's anything else you suggest I tag for, please let me know!
> 
> This story is finished, and can definitely be read as a stand-alone, but I've had a lot of fun writing it, so chances are pretty good that I'll write more at some point.


End file.
